Sophinisba Solis (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sophinisba) wrote2012-03-03 05:48 pm
sophinisba) wrote2012-03-03 05:48 pm
Entry tags:
Morgana(/Morgause) ficlet: Her Balm, Her Bane
Title: Her Balm, Her Bane
Fandom: Merlin
Wordcount: 904
Ship: Morgana/Morgause
Rating: R
Contains: Spoilers for season 4, loss/grieving, incestuous desire, masochism, misuse of plants.
Summary: Her skin is going numb from day after day of practice, of pretending Morgause is there to hold her in place, to tell her how to go on.
Notes: For the "genital torture" square on my second![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo card. Not a nice fic. Read it at the AO3 if you prefer!
Morgana didn't come to know her sister well until after the poisoning. By then she'd spent so much time daydreaming about this dark knight, this dashing enchantress, that she didn't know what to think of the gentle woman who was nursing her back to health.
She's spent half her life in sickbeds, it seemed. She was well used to the deferent touch of papery skin on hers. She was used to medicines that tasted of polite lies and oblivion.
When Morgause said, "Drink this, Morgana, it will burn at first but it will help bring you back to yourself," she meant it. And how could that be, Morgana wondered, when Gaius had known her all her life and Morgause had never been there. How was it that Morgause knew who Morgana really was, or was supposed to be, and knew how to bring her back?
*
Morgause made her learn the name of every ingredient in any draught she drank, any unguent that touched her body. Once that knowledge became normal, Morgana couldn't understand how she ever, ever suffered Gaius or Uther or Merlin, of all people that idiot peasant Merlin, to tell her what to drink or how to behave.
In between lessons on how to channel anger into movement and desire into flame, Morgause had Morgana memorising the names of herbs, identifying them by the shape of their leaves, then by the smell when they were crushed. She had Morgana grinding plants with mortar and pestle until her arms were sore and her patience spent, had her distil them in oils or mix them with water, alcohol, and blood. Finally she had her learn them by the sensation on her skin.
"It burns!" Morgana cried as Morgause crushed daphne berries against her arm, "take them off!"
But Morgause grabbed her wrist and held her fast, said, "You will know it. You will know the plants meant to heal and those meant to harm you. I will not risk losing you to poison again."
*
After all that, she should have been able to help her.
But she was lost, helpless. Could do no more in the end than cradle Morgause in her arms and weep. And she knew better than to think her tears were any kind of medicine.
*
She'd learned something about magic but nothing about how to tend a house. It is filthy and falling apart. If only Morgause were here.
If only Gwen were here.
She still has the plants, though.
"I take better care of you than I do of myself," she says as she pours water around their roots, as she flicks away the pests. "Gwen would be proud."
*
She grinds roots and leaves and berries until her arms ache, and then she spreads them on her skin and compares one poison's blank cold to another's heat. It's almost like having company again.
*
Swallowing them would kill her, which would keep her from ever getting revenge. Morgana doesn't want to die. She just wants to feel something.
But the skin of her arms is going numb, from day after day of practice, of pretending Morgause is there to hold her in place, to tell her how to go on.
The inside of her wrist is a bit more sensitive, but that thrill fades quickly as well.
Morgana takes off her filthy clothes and spreads the poison on her nipples. She lies on the cot and lets it touch her until she shakes, until she weeps.
*
She gives over more and more of her time to testing, less to tending her garden, until she runs out of monkshood and wolfsbane, not to mention food. She wanders in the woods until she finds a daphne bush, and she has to kneel on the ground and cry for her loss before she can pull herself together and harvest the berries.
*
In the first few days after the hemlock, Morgana couldn't move enough to relieve herself, and Morgause cared for her as a mother – or perhaps an older sister – does for a babe. They were never as physically close again after that. Morgana kept dreaming of Morgause's hands and Morgause's mouth on hers, while Morgause calmly showed her how move her hands and tongue to direct a spell.
Looking back, she can't understand how they wasted so much time.
Then again, she thinks (especially during the rare times when she does have a guest – when she's berating Agravaine, and when she sets the Fomorrah on Merlin), not all their time together was wasted. Morgana did a little something after all.
Her fingers are too numb to even notice the burn now, but she pinches the berries until they burst, and she spreads the juice over her most sensitive skin, private. She spreads her legs and uses her fingers to spread her inner lips. There, where no one else has ever touched her. Morgana pinches her nub and tells herself it's Morgause touching her. Finally, finally, touching her, hurting her.
"I know it," she moans, as the tingling turns to a bright hot burn, a hurt she won't be able to wash away. "I'd know your touch anywhere. Don't take it away."
Morgana writhes on the cot and rides the wave of perfect pain her sister gave her.
You were strong, she thinks, and you were brave, but you were never this harsh in life. You were never this cruel until you left me.
Fandom: Merlin
Wordcount: 904
Ship: Morgana/Morgause
Rating: R
Contains: Spoilers for season 4, loss/grieving, incestuous desire, masochism, misuse of plants.
Summary: Her skin is going numb from day after day of practice, of pretending Morgause is there to hold her in place, to tell her how to go on.
Notes: For the "genital torture" square on my second
kink_bingo card. Not a nice fic. Read it at the AO3 if you prefer!Morgana didn't come to know her sister well until after the poisoning. By then she'd spent so much time daydreaming about this dark knight, this dashing enchantress, that she didn't know what to think of the gentle woman who was nursing her back to health.
She's spent half her life in sickbeds, it seemed. She was well used to the deferent touch of papery skin on hers. She was used to medicines that tasted of polite lies and oblivion.
When Morgause said, "Drink this, Morgana, it will burn at first but it will help bring you back to yourself," she meant it. And how could that be, Morgana wondered, when Gaius had known her all her life and Morgause had never been there. How was it that Morgause knew who Morgana really was, or was supposed to be, and knew how to bring her back?
*
Morgause made her learn the name of every ingredient in any draught she drank, any unguent that touched her body. Once that knowledge became normal, Morgana couldn't understand how she ever, ever suffered Gaius or Uther or Merlin, of all people that idiot peasant Merlin, to tell her what to drink or how to behave.
In between lessons on how to channel anger into movement and desire into flame, Morgause had Morgana memorising the names of herbs, identifying them by the shape of their leaves, then by the smell when they were crushed. She had Morgana grinding plants with mortar and pestle until her arms were sore and her patience spent, had her distil them in oils or mix them with water, alcohol, and blood. Finally she had her learn them by the sensation on her skin.
"It burns!" Morgana cried as Morgause crushed daphne berries against her arm, "take them off!"
But Morgause grabbed her wrist and held her fast, said, "You will know it. You will know the plants meant to heal and those meant to harm you. I will not risk losing you to poison again."
*
After all that, she should have been able to help her.
But she was lost, helpless. Could do no more in the end than cradle Morgause in her arms and weep. And she knew better than to think her tears were any kind of medicine.
*
She'd learned something about magic but nothing about how to tend a house. It is filthy and falling apart. If only Morgause were here.
If only Gwen were here.
She still has the plants, though.
"I take better care of you than I do of myself," she says as she pours water around their roots, as she flicks away the pests. "Gwen would be proud."
*
She grinds roots and leaves and berries until her arms ache, and then she spreads them on her skin and compares one poison's blank cold to another's heat. It's almost like having company again.
*
Swallowing them would kill her, which would keep her from ever getting revenge. Morgana doesn't want to die. She just wants to feel something.
But the skin of her arms is going numb, from day after day of practice, of pretending Morgause is there to hold her in place, to tell her how to go on.
The inside of her wrist is a bit more sensitive, but that thrill fades quickly as well.
Morgana takes off her filthy clothes and spreads the poison on her nipples. She lies on the cot and lets it touch her until she shakes, until she weeps.
*
She gives over more and more of her time to testing, less to tending her garden, until she runs out of monkshood and wolfsbane, not to mention food. She wanders in the woods until she finds a daphne bush, and she has to kneel on the ground and cry for her loss before she can pull herself together and harvest the berries.
*
In the first few days after the hemlock, Morgana couldn't move enough to relieve herself, and Morgause cared for her as a mother – or perhaps an older sister – does for a babe. They were never as physically close again after that. Morgana kept dreaming of Morgause's hands and Morgause's mouth on hers, while Morgause calmly showed her how move her hands and tongue to direct a spell.
Looking back, she can't understand how they wasted so much time.
Then again, she thinks (especially during the rare times when she does have a guest – when she's berating Agravaine, and when she sets the Fomorrah on Merlin), not all their time together was wasted. Morgana did a little something after all.
Her fingers are too numb to even notice the burn now, but she pinches the berries until they burst, and she spreads the juice over her most sensitive skin, private. She spreads her legs and uses her fingers to spread her inner lips. There, where no one else has ever touched her. Morgana pinches her nub and tells herself it's Morgause touching her. Finally, finally, touching her, hurting her.
"I know it," she moans, as the tingling turns to a bright hot burn, a hurt she won't be able to wash away. "I'd know your touch anywhere. Don't take it away."
Morgana writhes on the cot and rides the wave of perfect pain her sister gave her.
You were strong, she thinks, and you were brave, but you were never this harsh in life. You were never this cruel until you left me.